


waiting

by orphan_account



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Angst, Emotional Repression, Heartbreak, M/M, Minor Tsukishima Kei/Original Character, Minor Tsukishima Kei/Yamaguchi Tadashi, oh i really really hate myself, there's some snowman vodka too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-05 13:44:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11579247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “i’m just waiting for you to hold my hand.”





	waiting

It’s just after six when Tsukishima Kei’s phone buzzes softly, drawing him from his half-nap with a grunt as he fumbles for his glasses and the device resting on his stomach. _Four new messages from_ **_amazign cat man_ ** _._  

> (6:03) **amazign cat man** u busy 2nite?
> 
> (6:03) **amazign cat man** we’re going out & bo said to invite u too
> 
> (6:03) **amazign cat man** if ur busy thats no problem
> 
> (6:04) **amazign cat man** but u should loosen up & enjoy life a little sometimes

Tsukishima eyes the pile of assignments on his apartment’s tiny coffee table and back at the phone and he thinks _whatever_ , so he types back:

> (6:06) **Tsukishima Kei** Alright.

The reply comes almost immediately and maybe Tsukishima is a little surprised, but then he isn’t, because Kuroo and Bokuto and even the shrimp Hinata practically live in their phones, so.

> (6:06) **amazign cat man** great!! meet us @ _the vault_ in 30 min?

He clicks off his phone without answering and tosses it onto the sofa—because Kuroo knows he’ll have seen it—and makes his way off the sagging couch he picked up from some garage sale for ten percent of its original price. He’d dragged it to the back of his apartment complex, sprayed it down with all of those containers in his linen cupboard, and finally got it up seven flights of stairs. Worth it or not, at least he had someplace to lounge while he worked.

He makes his way out of the apartment with the coat slung over his shoulders and white skinny jeans tight around his thighs and a voice in the back of his head that tells him this is a bad idea but he ignores it and continues on.

If he was smart he would’ve listened to that voice.

 

It’s dark outside—there’s only a sliver of silver moon and the stars are uncomfortably absent from the velvet black sky— but that’s to be expected, since he’s in the city. And even though the neon signs that hang from storefronts paint the neatly paved street in swashes of bright pinks and electric yellows and shocking greens and blues, the haze of fog that hangs behind his eyelids stays, and becomes all the more evident every time he blinks open his eyes.

Pebbles dig into his backside as he shifts, gazing absently at the tattoo parlour across the street. He’s more than aware of the frigid rain that bites into his face and arms and into the back of his neck and he thinks to maybe put on his coat or something but he makes no move to drape himself in the peacoat bunched between his chest and thighs.

He can hear the thrum of the club’s god-awful music through the brick wall. Raindrops lash across the lenses of his glasses and he thinks again maybe to clear them but he can’t conjure the energy to move. He’s too tired.

He’s aware of that. But at the same time, he isn’t, and that’s fine with him.

He’s aware of the five-inch beige stilettos that stutter across rain-slick concrete, barely missing his foot— the soft skin of her thigh is exposed beyond socially appropriate, with a fur-lined skirt doing nothing to preserve warmth. Stupid, but clearly served its purpose since she had an arm to cling on despite the owner of that arm probably being as drunk is not more than she.

He’s aware of the tires of cars owned by late-shift workers splashing through the puddles collected at the side of the road, sending sprays of murky water that lap pitifully at the slabs of concrete that make up the sidewalk. He’s splashed by a particularily violent turn, but he doesn’t mind— or he doesn’t _care_ , because rain is water and a puddle is water so what difference did it make?

And he’s aware of the dazzling white tips of a pair of red converse that stop right by the of his favorite Doc Martens before shifting once. He’s aware of how the shadow curls over his head, blocking out the bright shop signs, blocking out the sky. He’s not aware of how he shoves his face into the soft fabric of his peacoat and he’s not aware of that nagging voice in his head that tells him he _knows_ those red converse—

Or maybe he is, and buried it deep somewhere because he’s learned over the years that it’s always easier to pretend rather than admit. It’s _always_ easier.

 

“Tsukishima-kun,” a voice says, and it’s dim, like hearing a voice through water. Tsukishima wants to pretend he didn’t hear it, wants to pretend he doesn’t feel the older’s scalding gaze upon his rain-soaked hair. _Kuroo-san. And_ he’s thinking again, he’s always thinking, _why aren’t you with that_ **_girl_** _—_

( _Hold that thought_ , Kuroo’s voice seems to say.) “ _T_ _sukki_.”

(But he doesn’t, because when has Tsukishima ever obeyed anyone?)

— _that girl with the pretty blonde hair and sharp cat eyes just like yours, that pretty girl in a t-shirt for that band you like, with nice legs and a quiet personality, just like how you like them— why aren’t you with_ **_her_** _?_ His head is swimming with  _her_ — when he’d walked up to the club entrance and Kuroo’d been there in all his ripped black jean and silver stud and corner store wristband glory, red windbreaker pushed up to his elbows and his signature smirk on his lips. _Lookin’ smart, Tsukki_ , he’d said, brushing his knuckles on Tsukishima’s exposed shoulder.

(Tsukishima’d thought he looked ethereal. Like a god, a deity, haloed in the artificial light of the lamppost.)

But _she’d_ been there as well, her golden hair and light curve to her lip and whitewashed denim jacket tied around her waist, been there leaning against the glass door and Tsukishima couldn’t help but think: _they’re perfect for each other_ , she’s the light to Kuroo’s dark, like yin and yang, like black and white.

And he’d said hi, nodded at her, and when she opened the door he beelined toward the bar to next to an olive-haired man— _boy_ , he looked barely a day over twenty—in a flowery blouse shirt and gold jewelry that accented the gold in his hair and eyes and freckled cheeks. He was pretty, good-looking, _handsome_ , when he’d smile at the barkeep and dim lights of the club caught on the simple bangles encircling his wrists.

Flash forward ten or so minutes and he’s sipping at a bloodred drink that tastes of nothing but _burn_ as he swallows. He thinks feels a worried glance on his hunched back but he ignores it, pretends it isn’t there, and then it’s not— at least to him. His thoughts are beginning to blur into a mess in his head and he turns awkwardly on his seat to look out at the dance floor, where he spots Kuroo almost immediately. Where he spots Kuroo, and _her_ , and Kuroo’s grin and he knows that Kuroo must be laughing and _actually enjoying himself_.

He looks away.

He hears olive-hair saying something but he’s never been a nosy person and he folds his hands over his ears as discreetly as he can in hopes he could shut out the noise and the static and the silence and the pain. And barely a minute later there’s a shot of blue liquor in front of his nose and he looks up to say I _didn’t order this_ but the bartender shrugs and points to olive-hair, who smiles a smile that makes his stomach flutter and doesn’t say anything more.

He’d danced with olive-hair. Gotten his number, his name— _Yamaguchi Tadashi_ —and he’d fled the moment he felt Kuroo’s gaze on his back. Maybe he’d fallen a little bit in love with _Tadashi-kun_ that night.

Who knows, ever?

 

Then there’s a body next to him, it’s warm and comforting and sings _Kuroo Tetsurou_ like a melody, and the little space between them screams in Tsukishima’s mind and when Kuroo’s elbow shifts to bump his he shies away instantly, like he’s been shocked. The barely-there hurt in the older’s eyes burns him, like a red-hot stove, like an iron, like a fire. But it’s muted, so Tsukishima can pretend it’s a dying fire, damp coals sputtering out. So he can pretend it’s not even there in the first place.

There’s a little puff of air, a sigh of resignation, and Tsukishima can taste the tension in the damp nighttime air that draws his muscles tight like a guitar string. His body is attuned to Kuroo’s movements, and he tries to shut it out, but he’s still, still _so_ painfully aware of Kuroo opening his mouth to say something before closing it again.

They sit in silence for a bit, and Tsukishima’s close to passing out when Kuroo’s fingers reach out to tangle in his own, and even though he’s known that hand for eleven years it’s still dry and soft, just like springtime.

 

Tsukishima Kei is good at hiding his feelings. He’s blunt, he’s rude, he’s mean— and it’s okay if people dislike him because then they won’t look at him closely, one less person to avoid, one less person to hide from. He scatters dirt over himself to mask the fact that he’s insecure, that he’s broken, that his heart is as tight as the strings his fingers gloss over every day.

Because people don’t like to look at dirty things, and Tsukishima doesn’t want to be looked at.

And it was the spring of his tenth grade, when it was warm yet breezy and his newly-chopped hair fluttered in the sweet spring air as he fumbles through his bag for bandages, his fingertips rubbed raw from the strings of his guitar when he met _them_. His hands brushed a packet of brand-new picks, but he’d shoved them to the side and grabbed at the roll of white cloth. He didn’t like using picks. He didn’t know why he bought them.

Perhaps to please Akiteru, who passed that caramel guitar and that tray full of different picks and all his books and sheets and music he’d written to his little brother with a sob barely masked as a smile. His wrist wrapped in white, fingers wrapped in white, never to strum the strings of that guitar properly ever again. _Make me proud, Kei_ , Akiteru said then.

He’d let his bare feet dangle over the back of the old bench, ankles crossed and head resting on top of the stone wall that encased the little clearing. The air by the lake was noticeably cooler than further inland, but tenth-grade Tsukishima would’ve given up close to everything for peace, and save for a occasional old ladies, the alcove had only him.

He’d set the bottle of antiseptic aside and just picked up his guitar when a pair of boys—namely, Bokuto Koutarou and Kuroo Tetsurou—burst into the previously-silent clearing, voices tapering to a halt as first Kuroo, then Bokuto, noticed him.

And heat crept up from his collar as Kuroo’s gaze locked onto his, his irises so dark they were almost black, and he held his upperclassman’s gaze before Kuroo looked away, transferred his piercing stare to the guitar. He’d startled, his fingers slipped and a sharp twang rang out, and the confused expression of Bokuto’s face morphed into one of excitement one as the third-year caught sight of the guitar, and—

“You play?”

Then Tsukishima’d blanched, because _what do hell do you think?_ , or maybe because he was just surprised, or maybe some other reason. But he’d just stared, wondering what they wanted.

“I play the guitar too, but you’re probably ten times as good as me. Play something for us?” Bokuto’d suggested then after, and Tsukishima was about to retort something along the lines of _why should I_ but the expression on Bokuto’s face was so happy, so carefree, and some part deep inside Tsukishima wished he could be like that. So he’d sighed, dug out a pick, strummed a note. And Bokuto’d grabbed Kuroo’s hand and Tsukishima kept playing, even as they spun around the tiny clearing like they’d done it a hundred, a thousand, a _million_ times—

When Bokuto pulled Kuroo in to touch their foreheads together, giggling and panting, Tsukishima had to turn away.

 

And he doesn’t know why he was remembering that now, as dry sobs bubble up in his lungs—he refuses to cry, as he promised himself nine years ago—and he’s hiccupping and his throat’s burning again and the taste of _Tadashi-kun_ ’s blue liquor touches his tongue and he feels his heart splinter again.

He’s somewhat surprised, because if you keep breaking something eventually it’ll become too small to break. Too small to put back together.

His tie-dye shirt clings to his chest and his not-as-but-almost sopping coat is lifted out of his arms, and he feels cold— he almost laughs, but he’s cold, and he didn’t think that a person could feel cold after their heart stopped working. He didn’t think a person could feel _anything_ after their heart stopped working.

Then Kuroo’s fingers slip out from his grasp and ten years ago, eight years ago, when he still had the energy to, he would’ve chased it, but he’s tired. His energy is long gone, like a sweet memory, and eventually even the fumes you run on dissipate, becomes smoke and dust and nothing.

Dark spots swim in front of his eyes and a weak _what the_ **_hell_ ** _are you doing_ spills from his loose lips as hands wriggle beneath his back and he slips further down the wall. He can feel Kuroo’s biceps tense against the backs of his knees as he’s hoisted off the ground. _Stop it_ , he wants to say, but his tongue feels thick in his mouth and his muscles are like lead. _Stop making a fool of me_ . His chin bumps his chest and he feels like nothing in Kuroo’s arms. _Stop it._

He thinks: _I’d rather never see you again than you stick around and step all over the fragments of my heart with everything you do_ , but he knows that’s not true, and Kuroo knows that’s not true, and even Bbkuto’s goddamned owl knows it’s not true but it feels better thinking that, because when there’s nothing left of his dignity all he can do is pretend.

He swallows, and swallows again, before opening his mouth and the pitiful wheeze that comes out is equal parts horrifying and embarrassing. (But he feels numb, so whatever.) And finally, he manages to string together a sentence—

“Put me down... you.. bastard.”

(It’s riddled with coughs and accented in all the wrong places, but Kuroo’s always been good at understanding him. When he spoke, when he didn’t.)

Kuroo smiles a wry smile and tilts his head, setting Tsukishima down onto the sidewalk where the blonde wobbles once and wobbles twice and reaches out to steady himself against a heavily graffitied wall—which he misses by, like, four metres—but even though he’s shaking on his feet, he still shoots a burning glare at the tanned hand that grips his arm gently.

Then Kuroo’s eyes are warm, as black as a spring’s night and as stunning as ever, but he drapes Tsukishima over his back. Offers him a small smile. Loops Tsukishima’s arms around his neck, gripping at his wrists with a soft hand, and Tsukishima just hangs there with his toes barely scraping the ground and the plane of Kuroo’s back pressing against his ribs.

And Kuroo smells nice, so Tsukishima tucks his nose into Kuroo’s neck and closes his eyes.

 

Then he’s back in seventh grade, back in seventh grade when he wasn’t a goddamn cold bastard, back in seventh grade when he smiled because he was happy and cried because he was sad. Back in the winter of seventh grade, when he sat on a cold bench in a circle of pine trees with a crepe in his cold hands and _Ryouji-san_ sat next to him, and they admired the fireworks that exploded in the velvet sky amongst the falling snow.

Back then, he was happy. Back then, when _Ryouji-san_ licked his thumb to wipe a spot of whipped cream off Tsukishima’s lip, he’d flushed bright red and _Ryouji-san_ laughed and moved to touch his forehead to Tsukishima’s, soft black hair mixing into his blonde. Back then, Tsukishima’s heart pounded loud in his ears and his face flushed darker red and he didn’t know where to look, so he settled for the twin piercings into Ryouji-san’s ear.

“Hey, look at me,” Ryouji-san had whined, tapping his cheek. And he did, moving his gaze to Ryouji’s blue one, and it was exhilarating— everything was so crystal clear, the little smatter of freckles on Ryouji’s cheeks, the little sparkle in his eyes. They’d stayed like that for a little, Tsukishima being almost too afraid to breathe, but Ryouji laughed and the puff of breath that wafted in Tsukishima’s face smelled of cream and sweet fried bread.

“I really like you,” Tsukishima had breathed then, and almost wished he could take back at the surprise on Ryouji-san’s face. “I— I mean—”

But Ryouji-san had just smiled, and— “I really like you too, Tsu.”

He’d only really felt the feeling of mutual _like_ once, because after that winter Ryouji-san left. After that winter, Tsukishima had wondered why none of his calls were getting through, why the texts he sent were all read but never replied to. After that winter, Tsukishima overheard Ryouji-san’s friends talking about how he’d moved away to Toronto.

After that winter, Tsukishima became cold and Tsukishima smiled because the situation called for it and he cried because he was so, so lonely and nobody could see.

After that winter, Tsukishima Kei wasn’t happy anymore.

 

He doesn’t know what startles him awake but he’s suddenly just that— awake, and staring at an unfamiliar ceiling and his head nestled in pillows that smell freshly washed and everything feels different and not like his tiny studio apartment. When he tries to sit up his muscles scream in agony but he bites his lip and pulls himself into a semi-sit and the first thing he sees is a shelf of trophies, and— _oh_.

There’s a set framed photos of a shirtless Kuroo holding up said trophies and beaming, and Tsukishima really doesn’t need this when he’s barely awake and hungover so he tears his eyes away from the shelf and to the nightstand where there’s a glass of bubbly water and two pouches of grape advil, and a note written in Kuroo’s familiar scrawl.

> _Tsukki. I’m running to the drugstore downtown for fever meds, since you were burning up when I woke up & I don’t have fever meds that won’t possibly cause harm, so. There’s water in the kitchen and advil in the top drawer of this nightstand. _
> 
> _If you can get out of bed there’s food on the table, heat it up in the microwave if it’s cold. You’ve never really told me what you like to eat & I’m not much of a cook so I hope an omelette is satisfactory. _
> 
> _Tetsu._

The pounding in his head barely compares to the hollow in his chest, and he stumbles out of the queen-sized bed like it burns him and catches sight of himself in the floor length mirror. Mussed blonde hair, red-rimmed eyes, bone-thin shoulders and the oversized, well-loved black tee that hangs crookedly from them— it’s Kuroo’s, **_so_ ** _obviously Kuroo’s_.

Tsukishima’s lungs tighten.

 

His clothes are neatly folded in a pile on the leather desk chair, dry and clean and citrus-scented, and there’s no doubt that Kuroo washed them— he was that type of guy, tough-looking on the outside but would carry a friend home and wash their clothes for them at two in the morning. That type of guy that answered texts the minute his phone buzzed in his pocket. The type of guy that you would fall in love with, not sharp and immediate but like falling into an ocean— slowly, slowly, and oh, so, so cold.

The throbbing in his temples are like knives digging into his skull now, and he nearly falls over as he clumsily pulls on his jeans— _why did he decide to wear the skinny white ones last night_ —and the black coat is dry but still a little cold on his arms as he pulls it on. He leaves the blue and green and yellow tie-dye shirt on the chair.

His hands shake as he trips out of the bedroom, out of the apartment, shaking so hard he can barely lace up his shoes, shaking so hard he can barely manage to lock the door. His hands finds purchase on the wall as he waits for the elevator. The sweet smell of peach jam and warm toast is just _there_ everytime he tries to clear his head, and his stomach curls.

And Tsukishima wonders what he did wrong in his previous life because when the silver doors slide open soundlessly it’s him, it’s _Kuroo_ , standing in his _nekoma volleyball club_ sports jacket and black Adidas sweats with a Shoppers Drug Mart bag in each hand and Tsukishima’s legs suddenly don’t work.

The relaxed expression on Kuroo’s face melts into one of surprise, and—

Then his legs decide to cooperate and he sprints down the hallway as fast as they take him, and he can hear Kuroo’s shouts of _why aren’t you in bed_ and _Tsukki_ echoing in his ears even as he stumbles down the stairs two at a time.

Echoing in his ears as he exits into the fancy lobby of Kuroo’s apartment.

Echoing in his ears as he steps through the automatic glass doors.

And six minutes later, he’s standing in front of an apartment complex two blocks down from Kuroo’s, and it still echoes in his ears.

 

The first rays of sun sear his half-closed eyes as his back skids down the wall next to door _555_ , knees curling into his chest. His heart is ready to pound out of his chest and his breaths are rapid and his thoughts are muggy, racing around his head— but in slow-motion. His hands reach for the headphones that are usually placed conveniently around his neck but— they’re not there, and he shuts his eyes fully.

Kuroo’s face is burned into his eyelids, he finds, Kuroo’s smile and Kuroo’s pout and Kuroo’s smirk, burned into his eyelids and he sees him every time he blinks. Kuroo’s voice in his ears like a record that fills the silence. Kuroo’s name on his lips, _Kuroo-san_ , _Kuroo_ , _idiot_ , _Tetsurou_ , _Tetsu_.

Tetsu.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting by room 555 but when he peels open his eyes the sun is pouring into the hallway, he’s drowsy and hurting and sweating from his damp coat and his ears ring with Kuroo’s voice— _Tsu~ki_ , _Tsukki_ , _Tsukishima-kun_ , _Kei_.

Kei.

There’s a little bit of shuffling, then door 555 swings open then and the black-haired resident steps out, dressed in an cream-coloured turtleneck and black form-fitting jeans and there’s a blue microphone case slung over his shoulders and Tsukishima thinks _Bokuto would definitely like that_ and he looks up to meet the black-haired’s slate-grey eyes.

“Kei?”

 

Akaashi’s arm is looped around his waist and despite him being taller, Tsukishima feels small as he settles onto the white leather couch. Akaashi pushes a mug of coffee—black, just as he likes it—in his cold fingers. And despite him probably ruining Akaashi’s schedule, said man sits down on a matching white armchair and watches. And doesn’t say anything, because even though they’ve known each other for less time than Tsukishima’s known Bokuto or Tsukishima’s known Kuroo, Akaashi understands him better than anyone.

After a moment, Akaashi stands up. Pads across dark wood panelling, and steps into a pair of boots with grace Tsukishima couldn’t even hope to replicate. The door opens with a click and Tsukishima brings the mug to his lips again, but he doesn’t miss the soft, “You need to stop pretending everything’s fine, Kei.”

 _Stop pretending everything’s fine_.

 

When the lock clicks and the green led display flicks to _13:24_ and Akaashi Keiji steps into his apartment, it’s oddly quiet— it always is, as he lives alone, but the black-haired vocalist had thought a guest would make even a _little_ bit of noise.

But with Tsukishima, you never knew— he could be sitting against the wall staring at a blemish on the wall for an hour without realising.

He sets the microphone case in the foyer closet and bends to unlace his shoes. because Bokuto liked absurdly long lace-up boots and matching outfits so, naturally, the twenty-six-year-old bent to his childish guitarist’s demands and wears them to every show they did. He kicks the heeled boots aside, faux-fur carpet soft beneath his toes.

Akaashi steps into the living area and finds a tall blonde curled up on the hardwood floor, eyes closed, chest rising just barely.

 _No wonder_ , he thinks, grabbing the couch throw and laying it over Tsukishima’s shoulders.

 

It’s been three days after and Tsukishima’s just stepped out of the shower, and shoved his fogged-up glasses onto his face when he hears _it_ — it being Akaashi’s calm voice sounding slightly higher and somewhat gritted as Bokuto Koutarou yells something. Their voices are muted through the bathroom door, and he doesn’t catch some words because his ears are ringing, part because of the shower and part because Bokuto—and by extension, Kuroo—was looking for him.

“—I told you, Bokuto-san, he’s _not_ here. I haven’t seen him since we went for coffee on Friday,” Akaashi says, sounding like he’d repeated himself at least three times. “No, I don’t think it’s necessary to report his ‘disappearance’ to the police.”

Tsukishima makes a mental note to take the black-haired out for dinner when he could afford it.

“But he’s been missing for three fucking days, and _nobody_ — Hinata, Yaku-san, and apparantly you too— hasn’t seen him.”

“I haven’t seen him, but you do understand he’s an adult, Bokuto-san? Kei’s an emotional person, believe it or not, and I’ve noticed that in the ten years I’ve known him. I’d hoped you and Kuroo-san would know, having known him longer, but I never know what to expect from you.”

“Kuroo’s now breaking apart because he wants to be a good friend but everything he does just pushes Tsukki away from him,” Bokuto replies.

Tsukishima walks into the guest bedroom and closes the door.

 

“Kei?” And it’s Akaashi’s voice, ten minutes later, when he shut the door on Bokuto and Tsukishima’s tucked up against the headboard of Akaashi’s spare bed with his hands over his ears and heart in his throat. There’s a soft knock, and another, louder, “Kei?” but Tsukishima ignores it and ignores the tugging in his chest that’s pulling him apart.

“Kei, I know you’re listening, so I’m just gonna tell you something on Kuroo-san’s behalf because even though I prefer you over the twin terrors anyday, he’s.. Kuroo-san’s still a friend, and has been longer than you have.

“In the fourteen years I’ve known Kuroo-san, I’ve learned a couple things about him.” A pause. “He’s not romantic, and he’s bad at showing his feelings. He wants approval, approval that his parents never gave him when he was younger and he’s constantly thinking about his actions and what others might think of him. He’s not trying to hurt you, but he’s been around Bokuto-san so long he’s become rather clingy and he feels like he’s ignoring someone if he isn’t constantly texting them, calling them. He’s scared of not being accepted by anyone he cares about.”

Tsukishima opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Another thing though— Kuroo-san.. he likes you as a friend, and it hurts him when you run from him. And I know it hurts you when you run from him.”

 _Why should_ **_I_ ** _care?_ Tsukishima wants to ask, but the words are like glue, stuck in his throat.

“For the sake of Kuroo-san, I’m going to ask you to go home— he thinks you’re lying in a ditch right now. I’ll tell him you’re okay, but anything else you’re going to have to explain to him yourself.”

 

The glass doors hiss open as he stops underneath the dark blue overhang, wind whipping his pale hair into his eyes— _I really need to cut it, don’t I_ —and the dim white lighting of the lobby casts ominous shadows onto the street. There’s the little old lady that always sits on the couches sitting on one of the couches, and she shoots him a dirty look because _look here boy, it’s cold outside and if you leave the doors open_ **_I’ll_ ** _be cold_ , and after shooting her a scalding glare of his own, he steps inside.

The receptionist glances up and her gray eyes meet his amber ones, and she looks back down at her computer. And Tsukishima’s ever-so-grateful for the quiet black-haired girl that mans the lobby at night, because she’s seen him at his worst and she’s never asked, or said anything. They don’t know each other, _hell_ , Tsukishima doesn’t even know what her name is, but a very little number of people have seen him cry and she’s one of them.

As he slumps against the mirrored wall of the elevator, he wonders what she thinks of him— it’s definitely not a pretty impression, since first time they’d met was when he was a baby-faced college freshman and had a relatively positive outlook on life. He’d come home reeking of the drinks Bokuto kept having him ‘sample’, because _gotta know which ones are good!_.

She’s hard to read, but not in that teasing, playful, _betcha don’t know what I’m thinking_ like Kuroo or the guarded way like himself, and Tsukishima couldn’t even describe it was empty— her gray eyes are fuller than usual eyes, spilling over the edge with something he couldn’t put his finger on.

The digital number reassembles to _7_ with a beep, the metal doors creak open, and he steps off just as his neighbour’s door swings outward, Sawamura daichi walking out with a stupid smile on his face and a gift bag swinging from his index finger— probably a present for some significant other. If it was possible, the smile widens as he catches sight of Tsukishima, and—

“Tsukishima-kun! I was wondering where you’d disappeared off to,” Sawamura chirps, tilting his head to the side.

To which he responds with a grunt and averts his eyes, hoping to put across the message _I haven’t slept please don’t talk to me_ but despite Sawamura’s intelligence he’s either not very good at understanding moods or acting incredibly nice because that’s what’s expected of a neighbour. Probably the latter.

“A person came by three days ago but you weren’t home and they said they had something for you,” the brunette says enthusiastically, poking his head back into the apartment and Tsukishima debates running away while his back is turned, but— “Koro or Kuroo or something,” he continues, voice muffled, and Tsukishima freezes.

He then emerges with a familiar Shoppers Drug Mart shopping bag and through the plastic Tsukishima can see the vivid yellow, blue, and green of his shirt. “He said you were sick, but you look better now? He’s a very good friend, and I’m glad there’s someone who cares for you.”

He accepts the bag despite wanting to curl up in a ball or throw up or cry or run straight back to Akaashi’s apartment.

Perhaps he’ll need that medicine anyway.

 

> _Tsukki, I don’t really know how to start this but I’ll start with I’m sorry. I’m sorry for turning a blind eye, I’m sorry for wanting you as just a friend even though I know you want me as more than just a friend but I don’t know what I’m doing and I’m so, so sorry for being so indecisive and selfish. I’m sorry for being the cause to your pain, I’m sorry for being the reason you close up, bottle up your emotions, and I’m sorry for not being sorry that we met._
> 
> _I know this is so old fashioned, sending a note and all, but you aren’t checking your texts or answering your calls and Bokuto says nobody knows where you are. Keep the medicine for when you get sick._
> 
> _Tetsu._

Tsukishima crumples up the paper and drops it into the trash bin.

His heart is in his throat and he can barely breathe, but he squeezes his eyes shut and tips the bright red liquid into his mouth. It burns the whole way down, and it doesn’t burn like summer but more like winter, cold, like ice. He pretends he doesn’t notice how raw his throat suddenly feels.

He pretends he doesn’t notice the wet splotches on his counter, and wipes them away with his sleeve, because all he can ever do is pretend.

 

And it’s been a few weeks, a month and twenty-one days, and he hasn’t forgotten about the crumpled paper somewhere amidst his _trash I’ll throw away someday_. He hasn’t forgotten, but he’s pretending that he’s forgotten and that the closest thing he’ll get to forgetting.

But it’s been seven weeks and Tsukishima turns to the hideous snowman vodka he’d been gifted by Bokuto the Christmas prior.

His phone buzzes from its spot on his coffee table and he turns hazy eyes toward the bright screen, toward the icon that pops up, toward the ‘candid’ photo of Bokuto’s pet owl.

He doesn’t feel like talking to Bokuto now, so he turns off his phone. Turns off the lamp. Unscrews the head off the frosted glass snowman and pours himself another glass of pepperminty vodka. If Bokuto had so enthusiastically shoved seven bottles of this at him for christmas, it couldn’t be _that_ bad.

The bottle soon becomes empty and Tsukishima’s hands are surprisingly still as he tosses the snowman to the side. It lands, with a thump, on the cream carpet. His hands find another snowman, one that has a santa hat and a lopsided grin, but after six seconds of staring at its rosy-cheeked face, he twists off the head and pours himself a shot.

He’s on the fifth shot of the second bottle when there’s a knock at the door, and he doesn’t register it at first, then ignores it. Whoever wants to knock at his door at eleven PM without an invitation deserves to be ignored. (if he was sober, he would’ve wondered why they didn’t use the doorbell.)

Then there’s the sound of his door unlocking, and Tsukishima stiffens beneath his triceratops-patterned blanket, because only three people owned a copy of a key into his apartment-- Bokuto, Akaashi, and _Kuroo_. For a second, he almost hopes Kuroo won’t see him in the dark, but then a light flicks on and he abandons that idea completely

There’s a muffled _Tsukki, are you there?_ , but Tsukishima ignores it to pour himself another drink, tip it back, and pour another. The vodka is cold and hot and pricks his throat as it goes down but the one thing to combat drunkeness is pain, so he drinks and pours and drinks and pours and drinks ad pours, as fast as he can, and his hands begin to shake. His lips sting and his tongue stings and his throat stings, and it _hurts_ but it feels _oh so good_ because he finally feels like he’s in control of himself.

He’s just raising the bottle to finish the last dregs of vodka straight from the bottle when--

“Tsukki, what the hell are you _doing_?”

 

He finally lifts his eyes to glance at the intruder and he almost opens his mouth to say _steal whatever you’d like, I won’t stop you_ but his gaze catches on the shock of black hair and red sweater and white flannel shirt, and despite the absurd number of shots he’d drank his mouth is suddenly dry.

“What do you fucking think?” he bites back after a too-long pause, sitting up to grab at a third bottle— only, it’s now in Kuroo’s hand, and Kuroo’s in the kitchen dumping the contents of his snowman into the sink. Dumping the contents on five unopened bottles of vodka down the drain. “Kuroo, what the hell?”

Even in the dim light, Tsukishima can Kuroo’s gritted teeth as he caps the snowman and sets it down on the counter. “Don’t ‘ _what the hell_ ’ me. I came back to say sorry and explain everything but I find you fucking around and drinking yourself to death, and even if I don’t feel the same as you do doesn’t I didn’t _miss_ you the past seven weeks.”

The blue sweater he’d borrowed from Akaashi seems to squeeze at his torso, at his lungs, at his throat and he can’t breathe, water filling his eyes but he still glares, because there’s _no_ **_fucking_ ** _way_ he’s going to cry in front of Kuroo. Not again.

“And guess what, _Tsukki_ ,” Kuroo sneers, leaning forward, the nickname sounding like a curse on his tongue, “unlike _you_ , I haven’t been moping around or blowing off my friends or skipping work, or making my friends _worry_ because it’s like you’ve disappeared from the planet. Akaashi, Bokuto, Hinata— they’re all worried out of their fucking minds and you’re just sitting here and destroying yourself. You act like you don’t really care about us all, but it’s not even really an act, is it! It’s just a fucking game to you, having friends that care about you and worry about you, _isn’t it?_ ”

He doesn’t respond, and Kuroo asks brokenly: “Why don’t you care?”

Then there’s silence.

 

Then the press of Kuroo’s lips on his, soft and sweet and _nothing_ like Tsukishima imagined, and his eyes flick open in surprise. The exhilaration is short-lived however, because his hands are suddenly up and he shoves Kuroo away harder than he intended because _he’s just trying to hurt you, he’ll play you and he’ll leave you in pieces behind him. You know this. You promised yourself never to fall for it again, so_ **_don’t_ ** _._

Then he spits, “don’t do that,” with more malice that he means to but it’s probably better because Kuroo backs away, like they’re the same poles on a magnet. “Don’t. Don’t come near me ever again,” he says again, partly because someone strapped a weight to his ankle and he’s drowning but mostly because he’s pretending again, pretending that he’s okay with everything. ‘ _If you believe, you’re halfway there_ ,’ right? “Don’t.”

_Don’t do that to me. Don’t play me, don’t pity me, don’t do something because you think it’ll make me feel better._

_I’m fine_.

 _I’m fine_.

 **_I’m fine_ **.

 

Kuroo’s face is unreadable, stormy and surprised and Tsukishima can find pain in his dark eyes before he gets up silently, and leaves.

The door clicks shut.

And his ears are ringing with Kuroo’s voice and Kuroo’s laugh and _Kuroo_ before it’s just silence, and the sound of Tsukishima kei’s heart splitting open.

Louder than ever before.

**Author's Note:**

> what a _shitty_ ending
> 
> also since i'm a slut for validation pls tell me what you think.. ?  
>  ~~pls be gentle~~ actually you know what i'm an adult i can take anyth i ng u throw @ me
> 
> also the blockquote is hideous


End file.
